Taboo
by hidingELSEWHERE
Summary: The first time she ate a cigarette was three days after Violet had gone missing. It was her kind of sick, little tribute. Leah/Violet/Tate love triangle.
1. Chanting

I don't own American Horror Story. I don't own Tate. I don't own Violet. I don't own Leah.

I've been planning this story for a while, because I really want to bring light to the suffering Leah's experiences have caused her. I feel like she had the potential to be a complex character, so I'm going to try my best to tell her transformation and story. This little tale, while dark and twisted, is going to be a Tate/Leah/Violet love triangle. It takes place just after Violet had "disappeared" and the rest of the Harmon's perished in the Murder House. This chapter starts off as basically the building blocks for Leah's character and her life after her attack. Hope you like it!

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><p>Smudges of cosmetics ran aimlessly across the white surface of her vanity, tainting the porcelain that was one innocent – pure. In one palm she held a small glass bottle, the liquid pouring from it, engulfing her other hand as it stained her skin. She imagined it as an elixir as she lifted it to her cheeks, cringing as she felt the three raised marks trailing down the side of her face, her eyes beginning to water as she feverously packed the substance into her pores.<p>

The mirror in front of her was covered with a floral sheet – she preferred not to face what she had become. Nice tits, nice ass – she was just a skeleton now, her once rosy cheeks dull and ashen. Laying in front of her, shattered and cracked, was a compact mirror that she timidly reached for, letting out a sarcastic chuckle as she held it in front of her.

_Seven years bad luck._ And she smirked at the irony.

Distorted and multiplied, she gazed upon her image in the broken pieces, focused on the three long marks – scars. They could never be covered up, no matter how much make up she put on. They were eternal … immortal compared to the rest of her aging body. _Always. Always. Always. Always._

She slammed the compact down, tears flooding her eyes as she shut them, fighting back the memories. _Not again. _

"Leah?" a voice called, muffled as the sound traveled around the closed door.

"I'm fine," she replied, reaching for the facet so she could rinse her tainted hands.

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><p>The first time she ate a cigarette was three days after Violet had gone missing. It was her kind of sick, little tribute.<p>

Once she started, she couldn't stop.

Every time she drove past the Murder House on her way to school, she'd cram one into her mouth, embracing the bitterness with a cold and stoic expression. She'd swallow it, fighting the urge to vomit it back up.

She truly was a sick, sick girl.

Once, she had been forced to babysit for a family that lived across the street from what she called Hell. They had three beautiful little children that she laid quietly down in their miniature beds, bidding them each a goodnight. When she heard their breathing begin to slow, she shuffled her way down to the living room, standing still in the bay window that faced the Murder House.

She ate an entire pack that night, one by one, staring at the building until she saw the Mr. and Mrs. arrive home from their date.

The next morning she was in the hospital, getting her stomach pumped.

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><p>"<em>What the fuck, Leah?" the boy asked as she cowered away, pushing his hand out of her pants. No one at the party even noticed the situation emerging on the coach. <em>

"_I said no." _

"_We always fuck," he insisted, grabbing her wrist before she could shove him back any further. "You're lucky I even still look at you, scarred-up bitch."_

"_I should spit in your face," she bit back._

"_What?"_

"_That's what Violet would do."_

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><p>She got a job at the local grocery market, and it wasn't long before she noticed the blonde bitch, a regular customer, had acquired a little bundle of 'joy'. It would wail and wail as the old woman gracefully pranced through the aisles, disturbing Leah as she fumbled with the cans, placing them in their proper spot.<p>

She would smile at the crying, though. It reminded her of how she felt … what she wished she could do.

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><p>"<em>You're like … fucking psychotic, you know that right?" Danielle snapped, causing the surrounding students to turn their heads as they scurried down the hall to class.<em>

"_I'm not lying."_

"_The Murder House is bullshit, Leah! All they want is goddamned money and a movie deal!"_

"_I know what I saw!"_

"_You fucking rejected Josh, Leah! You quit the volleyball team!"_

"_The Devil makes you do strange things."_

"_You're going to drop this."_

"_Or what?"_

"_You'll find out how strange things can really get." _

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><p>"Ew!" the little girl squealed, dashing out of the living room as Leah swallowed the last cigarette in her bag. The glare on the window caused her to squint as her eyes as she glared darkly at the house across the street.<p>

_Eat it. Eat it. Eat it. Eat it. _The chant never stopped. It flooded her thoughts.

Two simple little words, she recalled, that meant an entirely different thing when she had first spoken them eleven months ago.

Violet had disappeared now – gone.

She was the only one in this goddamned world that understood, and she abandoned her.

And Leah was going to find out why.

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><p>Next chapter is going to involve some Constance and Leah time, as well as a little interaction with Tate and another ghost of the house.<p>

Review?


	2. Therapy

I have to say this chapter was pretty hard to write. I've got to get Leah into the Murder House _somehow_.

I apologize for any grammar mistakes, etc. I cranked this one out really fast.

Also, thank you so much for the reviews. I didn't expect this to be a popular fic, as it is Leah, but I do truly appreciate your reviews! Thank you!

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><p>The clicking sound of a broken intercom echoed through the aisles as she struggled to keep her thoughts, placing can upon can, box upon box. Customers had fled like the plague, scampering and scurrying as the static flooded the market, avoiding the noise like it was the very worst of their worries. Scott had been in the back working on the cacophony for over an hour, but she knew the truth – the sick bastard was most likely watching his <em>tapes<em>.

She had worked a twelve hour shift. _In the same, balled up spot. _

"Oh, would you hush up!" sounded a familiar southern drawl. _She couldn't help but roll her eyes. _

She glanced over as the woman jerked her cart back and forth, shaking the babbling toddler as he pulled on his safety restraints, fussing as tears began to glide down his cheeks, pooling just above his upper lip.

And for an instant, Leah stopped breathing.

_She knew those eyes – that dark shade of abyssal black. _

_Always. Always. Always. And the three little marks on her face burned._

Scott found her ten minutes later, passed out on the cold, concrete floor.

The blonde woman hadn't even stopped to help.

_No one had._

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><p>She had always denied that her family was broken.<p>

Her mother basically had two husbands, but she was stuck to Leah's father because she was a_ goddamn good Catholic. _

Her father, after eighteen years of his daughter's life, still signed her birthday cards _Leigh_.

But tonight they sat together, clasping each other's hands as they sat indifferently, facing their only child as they casually sipped out of their wine glasses.

_Red wine … like blood. _

"Leah, we're worried," her mother started.

She scoffed. "I'm going out later."

Her father smiled. "_Finally_."

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><p>The house was chanting again, and this time she was watching it from the gates.<p>

_Eat it. Eat it. Eat it._

She cringed, slamming her eyes shut as the wind swirled through her brunette hair, sending a familiar chill down her spin as she clenched her fists, leaving bloody nail marks along her palms.

"Violet," she beckoned, her tone taunting just as it had been months before. She hadn't realized what she had said until the footsteps beside caused a wave of panic, surging through her body with a vengeance.

"Oh, dear," the blonde woman sung with her regal voice, hand on one hip and dog leash in the other. "Haven't you heard?"

"Yes."

The woman's expression remained stoic – collected … in an elegant manner. Calmly, she extended her hand. "Constance Langdon."

"Leah Gibbs."

_She felt the woman staring at her scars. _

"Perhaps I can be of some assistance, then?" the woman smiled charmingly, her eyes traveling from Leah's face to her feet, a judgmental expression hidden in the slight curl of her lip. "After all, those shoes are absolutely stunning."

Leah glanced down, shrugging her shoulders at the heels she used to fawn over. "How do I get in?"

"Excuse me?"

"Into the Murder House."

_Silence._

And Constance merely chucked, digging through the pocket of her jacket before she extended her hand. _"Cigarette?"_

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><p>The door bell to the Murder House sounded, and Leah could feel the back of her throat beginning to swell. She watched as the blonde bitch shifted in her place, staying two steps behind at all times, arms crossed and dog shaking at her feet.<p>

"Hello, Ben," Constance cooed, a hint of teasing threading each of her words.

The man in the doorway was silent, his gaze hateful and cold.

The blonde bitch clicked her tongue, awkwardly shifting her gaze to the teenager beside her. "Leah, this is Ben. He lives here now."

The man merely nodded.

"He's a shrink – two kids, a wife. It would be absolutely ridiculous to be interrupting this man's personal life with your own morbid curiosity."

Leah paused. "You're a shrink?"

Again, the man merely nodded. "Yes."

_Eat it. Eat it. Eat it. Eat it._

_A smirk spread wide across her face as the chant started once again. "I'd like to make an appointment."_


	3. Scream

"Dr. Harmon," she began, "I do things I can't control." Her legs are folded and her arms sprawl softly across the chair, thin and pale and dry. But her eyes are intense, staring down the man that casually sits before her.

"What do you mean?"

"I started this thing," she says with the beginning of a smile, the corners of her lips acquiring a feline curl. "It's really kind of bad."

"Drugs? Heroine?"

She only shakes her head. "I swallow cigarettes."

And she never thought she would see a psychiatrist look so surprised. "You swallow them?"

"Yeah." There's a pause. "Aren't you supposed to be used to this shit? Like, what's with the look?"

"I'm not giving you a look, Leah."

"Oh, you're giving me a look."

"Tell me about your home life."

She can't help but lick her bottom lip, watching as the psychiatrist jots something down in his leather-padded notebook. Doodles, maybe, or shit about her appearance. Her scars. _Family Abuse._ So she says, "Tell me about your daughter."

The silence is so stale and bitter that she can almost taste it on the tip of her tongue, burning her senses and intensifying her gaze. She watches as Ben's posture becomes stiff and tense. "You know Violet?"

"Damn, do I know Violet …"

"School?"

"Duh."

"Enough," he says. "Tell me about your family life."

And as she tells him, she can't help but feel watched.

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><p>It's thirty minutes later when she's escorted through the front door, down the stairs, and onto the walkway leading to the Murder House. It takes Ben Harmon less than a minute to walk back inside, and Leah less than two to start poking around.<p>

Part of her wants to cower away, because she's looking for answers, not evil.

Not those eyes – not _his _eyes.

The sound of her heels click against the pavement, though, as she approaches the building once again. Violet. Violet. _Violet_. If her friends knew about this obsession, they'd call her a lesbian. A cocaine addicted, cigarette consuming lesbian.

_Because what's more fun than that._

"Violet," she calls, but it's more like the chirp of an exhausted bird, sad and lonely and in pain. "I know you're here. I just talked to your goddamn father. Stop _hiding_."

The grass crunches behind her, snapping and rustling to the point where chills run down her spine.

"You won't find her here," the male voice says. It's teenage, it's dark, and suddenly she refuses to turn around - _paralysis_. "Stop wasting your time, coke whore."

She runs off the property, screaming.


End file.
